Precognition
by CalliopeMused
Summary: [Oneshot] Rosie had a feeling that something wasn't right. She just had no idea how right she was, or that women have an intuition that some spiders share. Movieverse.


_This is Rosie's point of view, before and after Otto's experiment. Sadly enough, I do not own Rosie, Otto Octavius, Peter Parker, Mary Jane Watson, Harry Osborn, Mae Parker, Ben Parker, Norman Osborne, or any original character mentioned I missed. If I did, I would have made sure Rosie- well, I won't give away anything. This is a can't-say-too-much-too-early deal, even if I'm sure you know the early middle; it used to be her ending. A few more famous characters were never mentioned specifically in any text as original, but are a part of popular culture. You'll know them when you see them. Read, enjoy, and review. Review- warm fuzzies are good for everyone, and this author is no exception._

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Something is wrong. I don't know how I know this, but I do. I am an expert in language and revealing feelings through words printed and spoken, but I can't find the right way to say what I feel. Otto reassures me that he is one hundred percent confident. His nuclear fusion generator _will_ work. It almost scares me, this single-minded devotion to his experiment. It would, if he hadn't done this so many times before. He has brought ideas everyone called impossible to brilliant conclusions, making him a world-renowned researcher. I still do not like this experiment. There have been too many accidents with the easier-to-control fission. It could be a bad supper, forgetting to do some minor thing, or a different kind of precognition. Call it a woman's intuition, but this will not end well. 

There is no scaring a dedicated scientist from a life's dream with words about hunches and intuitions. I haven't brought up the nightmares- perhaps I should. I can't begin to explain them. All I see is a prism, composed of flying and misshapen fragments of glass. A rainbow flies at me, in bright colors and abstract shapes words alone can't describe. It's an image that I don't think even the best of poets could describe, and I am far from best. Then, I feel nothing. I am in a bright light even before the pieces fly at me in a formation I can't understand. I don't know what it means. I just know that whatever it is, something bad will come of it. I have never been so sure in my life.

I don't want to go to the premiere of his newest project, but I can hardly leave him unaccompanied. He attended to banquet to celebrate selling my book on T.S. Eliot to a publisher, though he felt he would never fit in. That was the day he met Norman Osborne, a man who could make everything happen for him. That was the night that Otto was offered a contract worth several times what I make in a year. He said yes. I never thought that was a bad thing. I was happy for him. So, perhaps something good will come of going to a scientific gala, a public relations stunt for OsCorp to boost dying stocks. Otto is not much of a public figure. His gusto about showing off this new work is odd, even for him. Perhaps I should be more supportive, but doubt gnaws atmy usual questionless faith. I believe in him. I always will. I just want a few answers.

The money wasn't an incentive. We had lived quite comfortably on my salary alone. We had a modest apartment, enough food to last us, and fairly recent wardrobes. Most income went into his experimentations, when he couldn't get funding. The phone bill between Curt and Otto eventually grew enough that they shared a cellular phone plan, so all calls to each other were free. Some people would have been suspicious, thinking their husband always talked to a mutual friend. I wasn't. Otto talked to me face-to-face, except for his sweet thinking-of-you calls. I simply didn't want a cell phone, even if he offered me a line. I have office hours- people know how to find me.

We never had children. This wasn't for lack of trying, on either end of the system. We considered adopting, but our schedules were a little too unorthodox. I taught poetry at the university and ran the Literates club. He spent all free time working in his lab on some madcap idea that always turned out to Oscorp's immense benefit. He could have made millions more, but he always traded for better lab spaces and equipment. It was never about the money. It was about how much good he could do.

He rarely brought friends home to me with him, and the rare Chosen Ones granted a meal were usually starving college students or assistants to some minor researcher, or even the competing researchers. He had no shortage of ideas, and often gave away pages of blueprints. Oscorp wasn't pleased with this, but they owned no complete copyright of his ideas until he spent company money on them. He was oddly apathetic about money matters and rights to inventions, but he kept his ideas for his own discretion. No one could control his mind, as he tells the board of directors. They can't fire him, and they know it. He does, too, and that makes him all the bolder.

I remember the last visitor. Peter Parker was quite the young (starving) gentleman. I loaded extra food onto his plate, and was glad to see it disappear. More than his face, or even the muscles so rare on anyone to understand whatever physics the two were speaking of in some language that was far from English as I knew it, I remembered his eyes. They were bright blue, wide and innocent and world-weary all at once. He was a puzzle, but nothing if not polite. I remembered his Aunt Mae later- she had volunteered with me the year before, distributing books of prose to the areas where we found the children in the dirtier streets, the ones who would wipe hands on laundered pants before reverently taking the book with all the shy solemnity of a scholar receiving an extra doctorate. His relation explained his manners. If she had anything at all to do with his raising, he would turn out right.

I had been to his uncle's funeral. Otto had not known Mae or Ben, but would have gone, even in the tuxedo he hates so much. One provision of the contract, however, was attending exhibitions. I remembered little about the ceremony, but had seen the three youngest attendees, besides the usual smattering of puzzled children, in the graveyard. One was the son of Otto's deceased employer, a hard-faced young man I felt a disliking to- call it maternal instinct, but I felt like pulling Peter away from him. Both of them gave secretive glances to the redhead with them when they thought no one would notice. The rich boy was an ex-boyfriend- I have ways of telling, through postures and years of experience with college students fresh from high school. I'm close friends with a woman from the Honors psychology department, and can analyze anyone but myself at a glance. Peter had an obvious crush, and the girl seemed to return this.

I doubt that I will ever understand the temporal man-child Peter is. He loved the girl, and she loved him, but he pushed her away. I watched them, even though I was too far away to see anything but red hair. Blue eyes were hidden- his back was to me. I didn't know he was the visitorfor our luncheon until after he had left, after the pieces of my scattered memory finally met. Otto liked him, but was disgruntled with someone else reminding him of the dangers of nuclear fusion. I believed in my husband, but it was my job to be the devil's advocate and argue the point, just to make sure he was certain. I defended him against Peter, of course. Love is thicker than respect, and Otto could use a reminder of my support.

We are leaving in just ten minutes. I don't know if I should mention the nightmare. I've never had anything like it. The vision is surreal, but I've never felt a stronger sense of premonition in my life. He is anxious to leave, to set up, to be ready. Peter will be there to photograph the event, but also to write a paper about the fusion reactor. I remember the hand-to-mouth days of college, and don't miss them one bit. I like to think of myself as an understanding teacher- if students respect me, I respect them. The assignments given are for their own improvement, however stubbornly they disbelieve me. I remember living on nothing but peanut butter and Ramen noodles for two months, too stubborn to accept aid from a boyfriend (not Otto) or an unknowing family.

We're out the door. Usually, we walk everywhere, smiling at the impersonal New Yorkers and the supposedly unobtrusive tourists in their black jackets, I Love NY shirts peering from all-business blazers. He's still nervous about being late, so we take a cab. I sit as close to him as possible, even though his large frame takes up nearly all of the cab's seat. If he had not been blessed with such an intellect, he could have been one fine football player, in the famous profession of Americans. I wouldn't have him any other way- I want Otto, my awkward, charming in hopelessness, bumbling, adorable, perfect Otto, not a suave society man. He still doesn't believe me, his one flaw.

I watch as he sets up, checking everything twice. I can't help him. I hate feeling useless, like I can do nothing for him. The reporters arrive. One photographer is almost late, and appears in a wrinkled suit with a crooked tie I feel a motherly need to straighten. He sees me and smiles politely before looking back at Otto's preparations, enraptured. I'm far from hurt- I recognize that look from Otto. Peter will be a great scientist, and I hope his redhead is there to support him. She had a nice look to her, even if she does have a flightiness usually found in theatre students too busy playing parts to realize their real lives.

I judge on appearances. I've never felt the need to change this- I'm usually right. There's no time to think about me, in a time like this. This is Otto's hour, when he will become nationally known. This will be his day. From now forward, everyone will know what an impact my Otto can have on society. I only hope they will see the same man I've loved for years.

He gives me a quick kiss before final preparations. I whisper that I love him in his ear, though I don't know why. I can tell him again in just a few minutes. I can only watch as he straps the actuators in place, and as they fuse to his spine. I cringe. I hate to do so, but the sight of those needles sinking into his skin has always made me shiver. The tiny andtoo fragile for my liking inhibitor chip is nothing, compared to the expanses of sleek metal tentacles that can do so many things. Those were almost as much of an accomplishment as nuclear fusion. Tritium is expensive, which he claims is the reason no one has accomplished fusion before- he's modest enough that, if I didn't know him, I would call it an act.

The machine is starting. I hold my breath, inexplicably nervous. It works. A small glowing orb- a miniature sun, as he so proudly calls it- develops inside, controlled by his actuators, as he calls them. I've always jested that the things were tentacles. I smile, clapping as I breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps I moved too early- something is happening. He says that he can control it. He looks nervous, now. I'm not nervous. I'm not nervous at all. I'm terrified. I can't lose him- not now. Not ever.

Peter is gone. I don't see him in the crowd, snapping pictures of an impending disaster. But- Spiderman? I never have believed the Bugle's reports of the arachnid-man being a menace, but he was unexpected at a scientific gala. His skin-tight suit of red and blue stood out in a crowd of formally dressed observers. Spiderman wants to stop the machine. Otto doesn't. I'm helpless again, stuck on the sidelines.

"Otto!" I don't know if anyone hears me shout, through the chaos and racket as people realize that this was not a part of the planned drill and festivities. I have the feeling that I'm walking on air, that I'm not really in that room. The screams are muted, and people run in slow motion. The effect lasts only for a drawn-out second.

Suddenly, my dream comes true. Shards of glass fly at me, shining and beautiful. I think of Otto, and how crushed he will be- does he know I will always love him? I know he meant for his experiment to be safe, and he would never plan for someone to be hurt.

I don't remember anything, after that. Disjointed images of flashing silver and suns and scarlet and blue and screaming fill my mind, and then I'm floating. I never did feel any pain- I knew that something was coming. I was numb. I watch, strangely not caring that there isn't a pulse in that woman's body. She is torn, and her throat mangled by the flying glass, but no one feels the need to show the bloody flesh. That was me? But I'm here, in the shining light. They put a sheet over my face, and then I know. I've died. I feel like I'm fading, disappearing into the nonexistent sunset- so this is death. The poets were right- there is a soul. I fly away without wings or effort or needing to know how, streaming through the air as I pass the buildings of my beloved New York. Otto's machine failed- will he join me soon? Time doesn't matter. I hear singing, and someone is calling my name. . .

I was wrong. This is not the end. I am in a short line of people, all clothed in brilliant white. My first thought is wistful, remembering that I could never get such an effect with Otto's dress shirts and lab coats. I touch my left hand, an unconscious gesture, to twist my wedding ring in a quick circle. My wrist brushes amazing cloth, strong but pure. I'm wearing one of the robes, a construction unlike anything I've ever seen. The arms fit loosely but perfectly, the bodice doesn't constrict or hang too loose, the skirt doesn't cling or billow out too far. It seems that I was not supposed to doubt where I was.

The few people in line before me were quiet, still looking around the place. The floor was like a cloud- surely it couldn't be a real one. Clouds were condensed water vapor, hardly solid enough to stand in. I looked around, trying to find other anomalies. My feet (bare, but that hardly mattered- I hadn't liked my heels; sensible as they were, any pair of tennis shoes could outmatch them for comfort) were a fraction of an inch above the ground. The desk before me was made of something like ivory, but was too large and solid. Alabaster? For the first time in my life, words escaped me when I looked at the man standing behind the podium.

He was impressive and yet fit completely into the background, a lost puzzle piece found after all the rest are put together. He was old, by the white hair he had, but his clean-shaven face was young and wholesome. He held a large golden book, and wrote notes with a feather that shone a pearly white. Before I could even allow myself to think who this man would be, he called my name.

"Rosalie Octavius." His voice was gentle but firm, loud but quiet, commanding and polite.

No one had used anything but Rosie for a long while. Even my students, except the most timid, would call me Doctor Rosie, or at least Doctor Ock, my own little joke to shorten the name. "Saint Peter," I acknowledged.

He smiled. "Common misconception. Peter's finally on break- Himself called Pete in for a bit of rest and relaxation." I must admit I had expected archaic language. I could understand old grammar, but dealing with modern speech would be much easier. "I'm Thomas."

"Sorry," I apologized, feeling hopelessly foolish. I just had to look smart, didn't I?

"Really, it's fine. Better to be called Peter than to be recognized, sometimes. I have one major story left in the Bible, and it's all about-"

"Doubting Thomas," I finished with him. "That's one of the most touching stories in the New Testament, though. Do you know how many young theologians believe that your tale speaks of hope for all mankind, that it is a sign that doubt is not a sin?" I blushed like a schoolgirl, hoping I didn't come off as a brown-noser. "I am- was- a university professor. A few good friends in the Humanities department taught theology."

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "Now, if I had one of you for every thousand that says just 'Doubting Thomas' or 'Wasn't he some play by The Who?', I would be the happiest saint around, except maybe for the ones around Bridget."

"Bridget?"

"Patron saint of beer-brewers, at least by the Catholic sector. All the business of denominations is bunk, I hope you realize. You either believe in God, be his name I Am, Allah, Jehovah, or what-have-you, or you don't. You led a good life, for whatever motivations, or you didn't. There is an in-between group about entrances, but that's rare. You're straight in, Rosalie-"

"Rosie," I corrected automatically, before even thinking correcting the man standing at the gates of heaven could hurt my chances.

"Sorry- there is a note in the margin, even if it is small. You're a ten twenty-eight forty-nine- death time in our standard scale of times, what you would know as Greenwich Mean Time. Use the stairway to the left after you enter, where you will meet someone to ask you a few questions. You have all eternity to answer- don't rush. Welcome to Heaven."

"No harp?" I joked.

"Sorry, ma'am, but the last group with harps was tone-deaf. It was enough that the patron saints of the deaf personally petitioned the big guy to abolish the practice, supported by everyone but the true die-hard music enthusiasts. You can join a choir, if you wish."

I had to ask a final question. How many times do you talk to Heaven's gatekeeper? "Why is the line so short?" That had been bugging me. I'd been behind four people, and there had to be more than five people waiting to get in.

"Time is slower here. You're always in a rush to live before you die, so too many die before they live." He shook himself, clearing excess thoughts. "Sorry- getting philosophical is a hazard of the job. Basically, for every second of time as you knew it, we have more time. That really helps with the backlog, along with the new computers network. I don't mean to rush, but the next group's arriving, the ten twenty-eight fifties. Straight ahead, staircase to your left- Katherine will be with you today."

I looked at the soaring gates, understanding that they could be called pearly. I felt poetry spring to mind, and I looked turned to the side, ready to yet again regale Otto with the delights of poetry, and convince him that T.S. Eliot would have something suitable for the moment. But Otto wasn't there. Was he still alive, then? Time here was longer, but I could wait for him. He had waited for me to realize that we had something more than a close friendship, to give him whatever signs he had needed to be bold enough to start our first kiss on the eighth date. I could wait however long it would take to quote poetry at him again.

The gates swung open at the smallest touch from my hand. I felt more solid as I passed through, and again could feel something remotely like the ground beneath my feet. My feet aren't callused. One simply does not walk around New York barefoot, between the need to run fast on occasion, hypodermic needles in the best parts oftown that litter the pavement,and broken glass. This ground wasn't at all rough, but was more of the cloud-that-wasn't-really-a-cloud.

The staircase was tucked discreetly against the back of the wall, the only visible feature in the foggy landscape. After I climbed a few steps, the place knew I wasn't lost. I could see a city, spreading farther than I could hope to see even with the world's best telescope. Everything was pure and bright, but not all white. Every possible color was represented, even dim browns that were cheerful and didn't stand out from magenta neighbors. Skyscraper and cottage blended together in the oddest suburb I ever could hope to see, seamlessly a part of the vast place.

My guide greeted me at the top of the stairs. She was younger than I would guess, appearing just about twelve, maybe fourteen- I've always been horrible at guessing the ages of children, maybe because I never had a babe of my own. She was still a girl, but had a woman's look of maturity. She smiled when she saw me, and her teeth would have been blinding in a dark room. Her earrings were something that I had never seen the like of, hand-twisted with a few tiger's-eye gems mounted in coils of copper wire.

"You like to be called Rosie, though your name-sheet says Rosalie. Thomas and the other old timers won't shorten my name, but it's Kate." She grinned at some private joke, but it was only a secret for a moment. "Really, it was too much of a bother to get Peter to say my name properly. He speaks all languages, with the Holy Spirit business and all, but that doesn't mean he has a proper accent. I'm from Tunisia, or at least I was. The Dutch got me. Some moron decided that they'd chain a group of weaklings in the shallows. That's where they take a long length of chain, or rope, if they're cheap, and put a really heavy weight on one end before dropping it in, trailing people in to drown. Most people don't know that. The water was too shallow, and I was at top. I stayed above water until some fisherman managed to undo the chain. I'd survived the Dutch slave trade, but pneumonia got me." She paused for breath. "Don't expect to talk about me all the time. I'm getting it out of the way. We have you to help out."

I was still shocked at what she had been through. She hadn't said as much, but slavers had come to her village, stolen her away, locked her on one of the disgusting disease-holes called ships, then tried to kill her. They had succeeded. She was disturbingly upbeat. "You forgive them?" I had been raised Catholic under a strict priest, the reason I rarely attended church. Hearing that babes dead before baptism were doomed to hell was not my idea of a God.

This time, her smile was almost predatory, and she was one of the lionesses who roamed the savannah. "It took awhile, but I was fine. Thomas worked with me, saying he wanted to do something. I know that this isn't good doctrine and all, but I also don't mind that the crew of that forsaken ship has a lovely place waiting Down Below. Peter told me, after he decided that I was Fully Adjusted to Forgiveness as a Better Answer than Personal Vendettas."

"Were you Catholic, when you died?"

"No. You don't have to be Catholic, or Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim, or anything else to get in. Mohammed's here, and so is Abraham. People from native tribes, like the natives of North America, the older tribes, and the Aborigines, are around, in the houses decorated a little differently than most. All you need is a good heart, and believing helps just a little. No one here would damn souls because they never heard the Gospel. Those that heard and ignored it are the worst- Himself gets irritated when that goes on too long, but he promised Noah that there wouldn't be any more floods." She explained it simply, making it sound perfectly plausible. It was.

"Do you know what's going on in the rea- living world?" This place was real, but I didn't know what else to call it.

She ignored my slip. "Better than most people still alive, as you think of it, actually. We're technically not dead, because the souls live on forever, but life is different. You don't need to eat, sleep, breathe, find a bathroom, or change a tampon, as new arrivals inform me. You can try all you want," she said, with a fake delicacy that made me smile. She was older than her twelve years. "It just won't happen. There are no need for such worries. "

"Is my husband alive?"

Her smile, almost a constant on her face, left. "That's what we need to talk to you about. He's alive, barely. Everyone thought he was dead. He wasbrought into the hospitalfor an autopsy when his. . ." She couldn't think of the words to describe Otto's new appendages, and made a few odd motions I recognized from my own pantomimes.

"He calls them actuators, but they look more like tentacles," I supplied.

"His tentacles woke him up. Seven people are dead. Something's wrong with the little bit at the top of his device, the-"

"Inhibitor chip," I said instantly. Wait- seven people are _dead? _My husband, my Otto, had killed seven people? "Did-did you say dead?"

"Yes, I did say dead. We have to look this one up with all the precedents, cases where Peter, Thomas, and the other guys didn't want to make a decision. Insanity's a defense, as long as the person did not create or knowingly encourage it. Up here, that can be taken care of easily. People start changing, just a little, until they're in the healthiest stage of their lives. You might get a little younger, you might stay the same. Babies are the oddest- they have ways of growing up to adults, really surprising their parents. Some who never had a child raise the babes, which is much easier here than in the Middlelands."

"What is he doing now?" I had to know, as much as I wanted to listen to the rest of the stories of aging and exactly how things worked in Heaven. I'd have more than enough time for that later. For now, I had Otto to fuss over, the one child I'd ever need.

"He's rebuilding," she said, not able to hide the sadness that went with the statement. "Four voices whisper into his mind. I'm afraid that there's nothing we can do to stop him. Directly affecting lives is really hard for anyone. The modern attitude won't allow a miracle." She could remember other times, even if they were already dying by the seventeenth century. I could tell by the look in her eyes.

"Why? Is it morality?" I had wondered what an unseen observer above us could see, and what they would think.

"No. It's everyone screaming that they're right, leaving the people standing up for the unpopular to be denounced and shunted to the side. He favors no race or gender. He is raceless and sexless, timeless and ageless. All in the Middlelands are ripping each other to bits, and the few caring folk are lost in the rush." She sighed. "If there ever was a miracle, other than the small ones, it'd be all over, spread with uncaring television instead of revered words. The conservatives would bring it to a political agenda, the liberals may say that God approves, people would gawk through cars- miracles have no place now."

"Is there a way to watch my husband?" I ask, almost pleading. Pleading, to a girl much less than my age- no need to say how old I am- was- always will be? Heaven certainly confuses grammar, but you still never ask a lady her weight or age.

"There is, but that won't be easy," she said seriously, making sure I knew what I was asking. "He won't see you. He won't hear you. You'll do nothing to help him or hinder him. It's been a few days since the incident with the fusion reactor- Heaven time and Middlelands time don't mesh at all."

"I will do it." I waited for Kate to do- something. I can't describe what it was. She looked past the small landing at the top of the stairs overlooking the town, seeing nothing and everything.

"Be warned, Rosie. The- tentacles, you called them?- have severely limited his part in making decisions. Only a strong catalyst can stop him, and you have no presence in that world." She spun in a circle, waving her arms and clapping once. She faded, as did everyone else. She mouthed that she'd wait, holding my hand in Heaven as my soul made the breakneck (it would have been, if I had mass) journey back to the Middlelands, as she called them.

I saw everything, in the disjointed awareness of the place. I saw Otto break into a bank, only to be fought by Spiderman. I thought I saw Peter Parker at one point, running away from Mae as fast as his legs would carry him, but that can't be right. He would never abandon anyone to a villain. I clenched my fists and fought the urge to scream at my husband when he carried Mae off as a hostage. He wouldn't hear me, the tentacles influenced his mind, and I could do nothing. Mae was a friend of mine. I did scream when she fell, and only stopped when she caught her cane on the angel carving. I could see that she had a ledge to balance on, even if she couldn't. I murmured comforting words she wouldn't hear, deciding to appease myself, if no one else.

I saw him corner Harry Osborne, threatening him with a hostility my Otto had never shown. This wasn't my husband. This was "Doctor Octopus," as the papers dubbed him, shortened to the almost vulgar Doc Ock. I would have forgiven Harry for his snobbery, his fear, his willingness to risk lives to save his own, and his airs. What I could not forgive was his betrayal of Peter, giving a name to someone acting in such a fashion. I had mixed feelings about Spiderman, and ignored the usual gossip. I had watched him at that festival just a year ago, when he saved Mary Jane Watson from the Green Goblin. Harry wanted Spiderman. In his blind rage to get at a superhero, he gave that villain- husband or not, Doc Ock was a ruthless villain- Peter's name.

I saw Peter in that restaurant, another quick scene change with no rhyme or reason. Doc Ock would be there soon. I saw him yet again denying that he loved the girl, saying that he was just a friend and nothing more. This made me want to exclaim the phrase of a popular card game, especially among the younger crowd. Well, there's no reason not to. At least, I hope there isn't a bylaw against a bit of mild cursing. Peter's testimony of not loving her is bullshit, and she knows it. I watch him tackle her, for a second missing the car crashing through the window. I see as he sees, I know without being told, in slow motion when there is danger. There's more to Peter Parker than meets the eye, it would seem.

Doctor Octopus is rude enough to make me want to slap him. I can't say Otto and mean him. Once he manages to control his mind again, he'll be my Otto. This man is not my husband. He steals MJ, as I have heard Peter call her with something like rapture in his eyes, away, leaving a justifiably panicked Peter. Spiderman will not miss his appointment, if the look on Peter's face is any indication. I can't discern the relationship between the two of them, as I saw Spiderman for only a few seconds, but he would not associate himself with lowlifes. Harry could be an exception, but there was more than likely some measure of good in Harry. Maybe.

I watch them fight. Spiderman is quick, but the tentacles are faster. That's the disadvantage of being a good guy- you always worry about everyone else before yourself. Doc Ock throws metal objects around like there's no tomorrow, not worrying about damaging the spider he will bring to an angry Harry Osborn. The fight is nothing I have an interest in- it passes quickly.

The scene on the train brings white-hot indignant fury to my mind. I watch as Spiderman's mask is ruined, and as he removes it to see. It takes me a second that feels like an eternity. _Peter Parker? _Peter is Spiderman. This only makes me hate Doc Ock's deception all the more, and Harry for what must be a misconception. Peter would not murder anyone, especially not someone he had once shown respect for, by all Mae had told me. I close my eyes as he begins his final idea, widely distributing the pressure to lessen the force on the buildings. I smile- physics, coming into my thoughts. Otto would smile athis influence. I feel the train stop, the people relax into shock, the strength fail in the spider. But willing hands catch him, and I only wish I could help.

He is passed back, body-surfing in its most poignant state as the crowds look at the face of a de-masked Spiderman. I am relieved beyond measure when blue eyes snap open, the dreamy look quickly lost to sharp awareness. He touches his face almost frantically, knowing that his protection is gone. They return it. I feel the emotions from that crowd on the train. They will not betray their superhero. He is now their Spiderman in a way the rest of New York will never know him, but perhaps MJ will have a better shot at knowing this charming young geek of a man. I've always felt geeks were charming- just look who I was happily married to for quite a few years, without any fight more serious than why he shouldn't overwork himself.

Doc Ock is there again, come to collect a spider more exhausted from the strain of saving so many lives than their entire earlier fight. I am among the crowd and stand there, part of my left arm occupied by a little boy, a woman's baby protruding into my hip. I am one of them, to protect Spiderman from his nemesis. The tentacles sweep everyone aside, passing directly through me. No matter how many warnings I was given, that hurts in a way I can still feel. No one can see me.

Spiderman volunteers to go, refusing to let anyone be hurt. If there was such a thing as too much nobility, he would be in trouble. If he held the devilish charm of most in his line of work, he would be insufferable. If he had the ruggedly handsome huge chin of comic-book superheroes, he would be arrogant. As Peter, ungainly and adorable college student extraordinaire, he gives the urge to hug. Repeatedly. The scene changes again, a quick scene that flashes by. Ock delivers a spider trussed up more violently than a dangerous turkey dinner. Harry hands over the tritium. Harry pulls Peter's mask away. Peter finds where Ock is building the reactor. Spiderman is ready to save the day. I get the feeling I'm being rushed through the encounter, shown only what is necessary through some higher tweaking of time.

MJ is there in the laboratory. I'm standing near her. The gigantic chains she's wearing are ridiculous. Doc Ock can't be serious- this is juvenile. He can release the girl. Looking at her a second time, I ignore the want to give her a stern lecture. For the record, large chains and larger padlocks don't go with anything, especially not the bra-less wet dress look. I was a part of the bra-burning generation, before they were not a hassle to wear. Go ahead, be free- just don't wear a wet dress while doing so. Well, she may not have meant such a look, but the disgruntlement still stands. I suppose it's part of being a college professor, veteran of the classroom. I've seen too many fads come and go, fading into obscurity and giggles from the next generation.

Spiderman arrives yet again, the cavalry coming in. MJ sees him as I do, and the look on her face almost lets me forget the Wet Dress. Not quite, but I'm almost appeased. She looks positively delighted to see Spiderman, however much she says she loves Peter. She's in for a surprise, but I know Peter's given her hints. He hates secrets, or my middle name isn't Agatha. (Very sadly, it is- even Agatha Christie in all her genius can't undo the agony of bearing Agatha as a name.)

Doctor Octopus is hurt by the electrical current. No matter how much of a villain he is, I see my husband inside of that man. The tentacles- actuators drag in the water, limp and almost dead. The generator hasn't stopped. I hold my breath uselessly- my soul, or whatever part of me is still left, doesn't need air, but the gesture is forgotten. I'm watching Spiderman rip off his mask, torn between crying and smiling when Peter begins to break through Doc Ock to find someone else. I'm watching MJ finally figure out the double-identity crisis, and remember Peter saying he had a girl in mind. I'm watching Otto emerge from the wreck known as Doctor Octopus.

My husband knows what needs to be done. I see it in his eyes. He is no longer a passive bystander. He tells the actuators that they will listen to _him, _and he means it. I know that he is back in control. I only hope that this will be enough, and that they will see that he beat this challenge. I watch him stand straighter, and decide what he must do. Even if it means I may seem him that much sooner, my heart breaks to watch him die so nobly.

He sinks into the ocean, hovering above a miniature sun. I reach out to him, watching his eyes widen for a moment as death begins to take him. He is in that almost-stage, half-dead and half-alive. He sees me in the ocean. I'm still wearing my white gown, billowing but staying at my feet, and smiling. I love him. I've loved him, I love him, and always will love him, no matter what is decided- but he can't see my smile waver as I consider what could happen.

"Rosie?" he means to ask, but the words are only bubbles. He has so little air- but perhaps it's better used in words than hoarded painfully in failing lungs.

_I love you. _I know he hears me, because something in him relaxes. He mouths the same words, more bubbles of air. I catch one in my hands, expecting them to ghost through. Instead, the perfect sphere remains in my hands, filled with deep blue water. I see that Otto is dying, and that he has only moments left. I hug him close, my arms wrapping around him partially, like he islimp Jell-o left over after a hot day outside. He hugs me tightly, and for a fraction of an instant we're both solid, and then I feel his soul leave his body.

I know without the sudden rush of moving upwards that my short visit back to the Middlelands is done. I want to see nothing else, except for Peter Parker finally getting his girl. In a flash of colors, I see MJ, radiant in a wedding dress, in Peter's doorway, where she never has been, no matter what she said. Whenever she declared love, it was a challenge, a dare, never a sincere statement- but she loves him, and he loves her, and they'll turn out fine. Peter leaves yet again to save more of New York, and her words echo as I finish the trip back up. _"Go get 'em, Tiger."_

Kate catches me as I stumble forward, feeling awkward to have a real body yet again, even if it didn't need to breathe. She leads me into a small room through a door I hadn't seen before, settling me on a fuchsia couch. I kid you not, that couch was the brightest shade of fuchsia I have ever seen.

"What's the verdict?" I asked, as soon as I remembered that this atmosphere would carry the vibrations my vocal cords produced. I do use physics a bit more than I feel comfortable with, sometimes, but I have once heard Otto quote T.S. Eliot. I feel that I have accomplished all that is necessary in my life, an extremely satisfying feeling. I believe I can fly, no matter how corny and clichéd it sounds.

"He just got here, Rosie," Kate chided gently, twelve-year-old (fourteen-year-old?) face somber. "Thomas said he'll bring the decision by. James is taking a shot at gate duty. Peter was really annoyed at being called in- he likes semi-retirement, and he and some crazy golfer with insane outfits never leave the green."

I waited. I twiddled my fingers, caught myself biting at a nail (a habit I thought I had vanquished years ago), tapped my feet, paced, and went through just about every nervous habit in existence. Finally, the door opened. Thomas walked in, shading his eyes against the overly bright couch- it was that bad. I have never liked waiting rooms, but they could at least have magazines- I stand corrected. There are cuneiform tablets on the table. Heaven has truly old magazines, then.

"It's a close one, Rosie." He sounded exhausted, and collapsed next to me on the couch after only one doubtful look.

"Tell me what's happening." I sounded half-pleading and half-commanding, an extremely odd combination. No one noticed.

"I've never seen someone with a case so complex," Kate said happily before remembering what exactly this meant. "I'm sorry, Rosie. I forgot for a minute."

"It's okay," I assured her. And it was. She was just too sweet. I had to distract her. "Are you earning your wings, then?"

That brought a laugh. "No, getting into heaven is an earning of the wings. You don't need them to fly. J.M. Barrie, the author of _Peter Pan, _had the closest description, if you ignore the pixie dust. All you need are positive thoughts and the good to sustain them. That's it. The wings really aren't a tangible thing, but I could show you, if you'd like."

Who wouldn't want to see an angel's wings? "That would be wonderful."

I thought her white gown had been pure enough to glow. When she concentrated, it began to. Two wings of a sort spread from her back, bending against the wall of the room. She moved them, giant spreads of light that Otto would love to study. _No- I will not think of him now_. Instead, I concentrated on the brilliant wings until she pulled them back into herself, not at all exhausted from the display.

"Does everyone have them?" I asked.

"Everyone in Heaven has wings, but we don't show them off to each other. Once you've seen one pair, you've seen them all, until you get researchers in here, determined to pick apart science instead of enjoy the sight." She wasn't glowing any longer, but I could still picture her with wings.

"Scientists- there's no living with them, is there?"

"Look who's talking, Miss Rosalie." Thomas was speaking. "You pick apart poetry until it's nothing but analyzed groups of metaphors. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, and a poem is just a pretty poem. You could talk to Dickinson about that, if you don't mind speaking through a door. She's still particular about that, but some she'll let in. T.S. Eliot hit it off with her instantly, and they're good friends, but Sylvia Plath's closer to our Belle of Amherst."

"I never thought about it that way," I admitted. "It helps me, to understand the poems."

"You're a scientist of words instead of numbers and data points. Alighieri and I had an interesting discussion about that a while ago. No one thought he'd make it up here, but the _Divine Comedy _did have a little section called Paradise, even if Inferno is more famed."

"I never pegged Heaven as a gigantic literary forum, but I can't say I'd have it any other way. I assume there are groups of all sorts, then."

Kate nodded. "You can have more friends than people you see in a lifetime, and see them all regularly. Something happens to your mind, that memories are kept clearer and longer. There aren't any limits. You start to remember everything you ever forgot."

I couldn't wait any longer. I paced again, surprised that I wasn't wearing a track into the ground. The floor was decorated tastefully in nothing at all. Apparently, they couldn't surpass the cloud-stuff. I had to know. I was heading for the door when it opened, and some friend of Thomas's stepped in. Before they even spoke to me, they did a complicated handshake the likes of which I cannot remember seeing on a college campus. I believe it went on for five minutes, but time is irrelevant.

"What was the decision?" I asked the instant the man looked at me. He didn't even have to say a word. I knew by the look in his eyes. There was either no news or good news. I hoped for the former. "What's so hard about this?" I knew the answer already, but I wanted this newcomer to say it.

"I've seen most of the cases here. The motives are simple. Try to do well, don't try at all. He tried his best, but the tentacles- or actuators, as you called them- controlled him. We don't know what to make of them. They don't have lives of their own. They were not born, but made. He created them, but he made provisions to save himself from their influence. He started the situation and would not stop the reactor when it was out of control, but the actuator chip was already filled with short circuits. Instead, we have gathered his victims. You are the last."

"How- how many are there?" I dreaded the number.

"There were seven in the autopsy ward. One old woman from thestreet when the car crashed into a restaurantwas already sent on her way- her heart condition was about to act up, anyway. No one died in the bank incident, but there were injuries. The subway would have killed many, but he knew that Spiderman would save them. He used the man's time of temporary weakness to kidnap him, delivering him to a man who intended to kill him. If the hero had died, he would have had another murder on his hands. There are eight. If there had been nine, including the spider-man, he would have saved us some deliberation."

"Are they close to a decision?"

"We will know in a minute. Come with me." He walked at a quick pace, but keeping up with him was easy. The smooth walking surface and pure air undoubtedly helped. Car exhaust amid skyscrapers does not make for quick access to air. I hadn't seen a glimpse, but had the feeling that his wings would be larger than Katie's. He looked older than she did, even if he appeared just thirty, or maybe thirty two.

He found a circular room. The center chair he claimed for his own. I took the only empty seat after a nod, looking at the seven people on the other side of the room. One, the head coroner from the authority he held with the others, stepped forward to give a decision. They had been speaking for a long while, from the way the others shifted in comfortable chairs.

"Saint Peter," the man began. "When his attack first began, he was not awake. The actuators started the assault, and he was bandaged for most of it, looking only through cameras inside each of the appendixes. He panicked, or perhaps the tentacles panicked for him- I was about to slice them off. I cannot say that I would react any better to my own autopsy."

"So, what is your verdict?"

"Forgiveness," they said as once, even the surliest-looking girl in the back. I could hardly believe it. Doc Ock had killed them, and they were willing to give him a chance. He was looking at me, and I nodded agreement, speechless yet again.

Peter smiled. "Go on, the lot of you," he said to the surgical team. "You all have families. Yes, Virginia, there is a family waiting for you in Heaven. Everyone's related to someone." He waited for them to leave, nodding as the surly girl broke into a smile and lost a sullen demeanor instantly. "He may not remember exactly what has happened as Doctor Octopus, as people call him, but he probably will. Either way, you will be his protector against the vengeful ones here. You already have a strong faith. That's how we conduct feuds, should you ever need to fight. Go to Thomas, if he isn't on gate duty- I'm going back off to the golf course."

Then, I knew I truly was in Heaven, that miracles happened, that I would live in bliss forever, and that I understood just a little bit of quantum physics. I heard only one word. That was more than enough. There's no need to be stringent in the most eloquent phrases uttered by a human, and that surpassed all poets I can ever remember.

I saw someone flying towards me, running without any of the self-conscious awkwardness that was endearing and exasperating. I saw a smile light up his face, a disbelieving expression that overrode the haunted look in his eyes. I saw him, and he was home. All he had to say was all I needed to feel as if I could fly for all eternity, as clichéd as it may sound.

_"Rosie!" _We were together, we were home, we would be together forever (how many couples truly get to say that?), and we were in love. This time, I couldn't find a single bad feeling.


End file.
